Howl
by Flaminea
Summary: "Hunger. Starvation. Craving. The tongue dances on the palate: the blood of the last prey is still fresh, but it's not nearly enough. Hunger always howls." Before the Lady of the Forest, there has been the Spirit of the Forest. A spirit turned into a killing machine: the great wolf Witherfang.


_**HOWL**_

This story is a bit of an experiment. And... a Christmas gift too, to someone who asked for a story about the Lady of the Forest.

So...

 _Merry Christmas, Paragade_AU!_

 _ **A/N**_

 _A word of warning: this story tries to put into words the transition from the Spirit of the Forest to Witherfang first, then from Witherfang to the Lady of the Forest as we all know her._

 _So, it contains a reference to Zathrian's daughter rape._

 _Also: a killing machine such Witherfang can not be "gentle". Therefore, the story could not be much gentle._

 _Finally, I owe a thank you to ArizunoShojo, who somewhat inspired this piece of writing :)_

* * *

 _No eyes to see, no tongue to savor,_

 _no nose to smell, no ears to listen,_

 _no fingers to touch. No body at all._

 _But it is the spirit and the heart of the Forest nonetheless._

The Spirit of the Forest hurtles from root to root. The presence of every being inside the Brecilian Forest releases the soft hum it picks up along the way. The more it nears to the Grand Oak, the more that humming gets more lively and lively. The Spirit of the Forest inhabits the Grand Oak, extending itself along the tree's strong, long branches: and just like the tree's branches do, it extends its presence and perception to the whole Brecilian Forest. The glowing, hot rays that orchestrate the growth of every new life warm it. The nurturing water fallen from the sky not long ago damps its essence, as well as it does with the soil. The grey, humid wall is dancing near the ground. The Grand Oak's branches shiver as a cold breath brushes against them. Soon, the white, icy blanket will tenderly cover the Forest, protecting its soil against the coming season.

The white blanket will make animals, humans and elven steps quieter, more discreet. That time still has to come, though, and now every step echoes into the Spirit's being as if every living being was walking right beside it. The predators rule the Forest and they know it, they walk cockily and conceitedly. The pressure of the prey's paws on the soil is more discreet, mostly wary and cautious. From time to time, the predators slow down, meddle with the Forest and lie in waiting; then, they jump, making the Forest rumble the moment they land back on their feet, and on the fleeing prey. The fear of the prey, the hunger of the predator, and the final cry of death fill the conscience of the Spirit as something metallic and thicker than the nurturing water fills the soil. But it doesn't matter. The balance is always restored, because somewhere in the forest a sprout is turning into a plant, or a puppy is sucking mother's milk. They both feed the Forest with life and counteract death. The circle of life and death doesn't trouble the spirit, unlike something that, time ago, had stank out the Forest. Something that was nor life nor death, something wicked, tainted, nor human nor animal nor elf. That had frightened the Spirit to the point that from time to time it makes sure that those dangerous creatures have not entered the Forest again. And so the Spirits does, extending its perception to the whole Forest.

There are no wicked creatures.

But a mixture of heightened emotions swarm into the Spirit: fear, terror, a dark amusement, anxiety, a desperate run. Something is being chased. Something whose steps, as hastened and rushed as they are, don't rumble on the ground like the chasers' do. The Spirit know now. The prey is an elf, a Dalish of feminine essence: the Spirits perceives her nature, her blood, the only kind of blood somewhat similar to the Forest itself. Her chasers' steps are the ones of the intruder: heavy and foreign. Humans. They are many, too many. Their mere presence upsets the Spirit. They shouldn't be here, they've never brought anything but trouble to the Forest and to its protectors, the Dalish elves. When the elf stumbles upon a root, the Spirit perceives the blow just like the female Dalish does. And one moment later, her heightened emotions overwhelm the Spirit, the root upon her ankle is being pinned acting as a channel. Fear. Terror. Subjugation. One last flash of hope. Shame. The most violent kind of desecration a female may experience. It flows into the soil and the tree, it runs right to the heart of the Forest. The Spirit becomes the young Dalish female, and cries in pain just like her.

 _ **§§**_

The Forest welcomes the glowing, hot rays as it has always done. But there's a spot that they can't affect. And as days go by, the nurturing rain wets that spot too as well as the grey, humid fog dances on it: to no avail. Nothing grows, nothing sprouts, no mother chooses it as her nest, no pup is born on that square of soil, every living animal avoids it. That brutal desecration has cursed that spot.

One day, the metallic, thicker than the nurturing water substance wets the soil once again. One drop. Two. Three. Thousand drops that one by one make the Forest scream in a crescendo of fear, terror, subjugation, one last flash of hope, shame and desecration. That's what the blood screams of. Once again, the Spirit cries in pain: in the end, what's left is a cry of death unlike any other, because this time there's no predator around. As the Dalish female's death reverberates in every root, flower, bush, leaf, animal, something creeps into the Forest's soul. It's a weird vibe, filled with something similar to the aggressiveness that permeates the males as they fight for leadership. That violence instills into every root, flower, bush, leaf, animal and finally reaches the Spirit itself. No moon is lighting up the sky, but the Spirit snarls and growls like the biggest and most powerful wolf of the Forest. When the Spirit leaves the Grand Oak, it finds itself running, howling and hunting the ones guilty for having tainted the Forest. Under its paws, the ground feels humid, the air is full of a thousand smells; upon its tongue, the blood of the most recent prey; the leaves rustle under its paws; and for the first time the Spirit sees the Forest.

The Spirit raises its eyes. There's someone sitting beside it, someone whose blood smells like the Forest. A Dalish. He's the core of the anger that has spread all over. With a strange, contrasting gesture, the Dalish caresses the mild, pulsing wound on the wolf's side. His hand reddens in blood. When he cuts through his own wrist, the predatory instincts of the wolf urge the spirit to leap at the elf. But then, a rivulet of Dalish blood meet the lupine one and suddenly the Spirit can't feel the Forest anymore: its whole world has become the wolf's sound, sight, touch, smell and taste. The Spirit blinks as the image of the Great Oak fades away, desperately tries to reach it, to extend its being to the roots. The Spirit blinks again, its eyes the one with the wolf's. And all around, the Sylvan take in all the fury as they awaken as vengeful beings.

* * *

An oak. A tangle of roots. The sensation of a forest that is, but at the same time it's not, the same one. A warm feeling of peace, completeness, a world so palpable that it seems real. Every single sound seems to dance in harmony with all the others. Equilibrium. Then, suddenly, every sound grows louder, their song turns into a cacophony. The images flicker, dance on the border of Witherfang's consciousness before they vanish, together with any memory of it.

The world is once again made of senses. The wolf's ears record the chirping of birds, the steps on the terrain, the water flowing into the stream's riverbed, the dew falling from a leaf. Its eyes open. The beast is awake.

Hunger. Starvation. Craving. The tongue dances on the palate: the blood of the last prey is still fresh, but it's not nearly enough. Hunger always howls. Hunger presses, takes ownership of the paws and of the senses. And they obey. Slow steps, the scraping of something against the soil. The wolf pricks up its ears, the nostrils smell the wind. Blood. Its song is alluring, overpowering, the scent of it almost makes the wolf go for a run without any caution. That's when the instincts kick in. Centuries of hunt guide the wolf's actions. The nostrils smell the air once again, and leeward that the hunt start. The steps are meticulous. At first measured, slow. The prey must not be made aware. Nearer, and nearer, and nearer, until the pace turns into a run. The moment the doe comes into sight, everything else in the world disappears. The doe looks at the wolf, and the predator feeds off the terror inside the prey's eyes. Every instinct is screaming for the wolf to jump, to attack before the prey can slip away. The paws obey, and one second later the wolf is gliding in the air. The prey attempts an impossible run, desperately trying to force its mangled hind leg into a jump. The fangs thrust into the soft perineum skin, the blood fills the wolf's mouth. As a portion of skin is being ripped away, the blood of the prey sings its enchanting song, the agonizing bell fills the wolf's ears with exultation. Blood dripping from the jaws, the beast contemplates the doe's death throes. Sight, smell, hearing, taste are intoxicated.

A nearby, furious growl breaks Witherfang's ecstasy. A pack of wolves is encircling around it. The pack leader moves forward, snarling its defiance. Witherfang accepts the challenge and draws the fangs, letting out a low growl. But even that minimal effort is enough to discourage the pack leader: it rolls over, showing the belly in submission. And so the whole pack does. Witherfang walks amongst them, smelling every pair of genitals and signaling them all that their submission is accepted. But when his nose meets the female, a savage instinct takes over the lupine nature. Intoxicated with the feminine scent, the beast goes for her. There's no yapping, no cry of pain able to refrain the beast's lust. Her pack won't rebel, no one can save her. And in the end, Witherfang turns the back on the violated female wolf and the wolves pack, taking the doe's carcass away.

Bothering with trying to fit into the pack. Been there, done that. No howling at the moon had ever brought a companion. Despite looking so similar, their smell is foreign, unknown. Different. They could never be a pack.

In the dark, Witherfang is savoring the prey. Every bit of meat and blood soothes a bit the neverending hunger running in the veins and veiling the eyes. Always asking for more, more, more. It's only when the drowsiness is stronger that the cravenness stops biting. Then, and only then, the wolf perceives _something more_. More than the animal instincts, different than what the senses can narrate. A deeper connection, a heart beating at the same rate, a heart that conveys _something more_. More complex, not animal. At times, Witherfang had managed to keep that second heart audible, even more rarely the wolf has managed to follow its sound. At those times, forgotten memories have made it to the surface. A painted, elven face, a gentle stroke. A warm, gentle feeling. The only feeling that's not a desperate craving. But then there's the wound, the blood mixed with the elf's, and that warmth turns into a blind fury, as powerful as meaningless. At first against the elf, then, as the wolf surrenders to that very same beating heart, against the humans.

In the end, Witherfang never remembers. In the end, what bites hard is loneliness.

* * *

The human is near. Witherfang knows.

His nauseating, rotten, unmistakable smell comes from behind one of those trees. The lupine hearing catches its quickened breath and the thin sound of what the wolf has learned to identify as a tightened bow. The nose perceives something else. Blood. It's coming from a wolf's carcass, a wolf left to die with an arrow stuck into the neck. The smell is still strong, which means the wolf has not died long ago. By instinct, Witherfang now knows where the man is. So the hunt starts, and when it comes to sharp teeth and a giant wolf's muscles, a bow is useless. Witherfang bites into the man's neck until his arms stop swinging and his throat is no more. The painted elf's voice whisper inside the beast's mind. The beast cannot make out the words, but it's warm, it's reassuring, it's sweet.

And out of the blue, the whisper falls silent. There's stronger, more appealing, more urgent smell.

It's a smell like Witherfang has never experienced before. Similar to its own, just like the painted elf's, but still somewhat different. Rawer, wilder.

Witherfang smells the air once again and finally, that smell shows itself. Its form is the one of two wolf pups.

Behind them, the female. The mother. While the mother walks to the dead wolf, howling her grief at the moon, the pups stare at Witherfang. The big wolf smells them from afar, the pups mimic its gesture. One of them takes a step forward.

Witherfang is aware that the female is ready to defend her offspring, ready to strike, to give them time to run away should she perish in the battle. But instead of demanding blood, this time, the beast remains at rest.

The moment the pups, the offspring Witherfang shares with the female, stand on their hind legs to lick their father on the muzzle, Witherfang knows. Witherfang remembers. Witherfang feels beyond sound, sight, smell, taste and touch.

The Spirit of the Forest has awakened.


End file.
